


Resolve

by Derkish



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Drunkenness, Gap Filler, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, Mutual Pining, Pining, Unresolved Romantic Tension, light fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-18 20:08:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20644943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Derkish/pseuds/Derkish
Summary: Upon returning to Crowley's place after the not-apocalypse, they find the flat not quite how Crowley left it.  Crowley has some second thoughts about the next best move.  Aziraphale doesn't.  They compromise by drinking heavily.





	Resolve

“I’m going to need some assistance, angel.”

Those were the first words they’d spoken since boarding the bus. The rest of the trip had been silence. Well, not _silence_—there had been the quiet buzz of the engine beneath them, the muted muttering of the other late-night passengers, and the thrumming in Aziraphale’s own ears. Six thousand years of questions screaming between their seats, between their shoulders, in a space so narrow one could only measure it by the atom. He was still recovering.

Crowley had stopped short of the door to his flat. Aziraphale, head bent low in thought, almost collided with him from behind.

“What’s the matter?”

“I suspect,” Crowley said grimly, “that just inside, by the swivel door, there’s a puddle of demon goo fermenting in holy water. I almost broke my neck leaping over it on my way out.”

“Ah. Yes, of course.”

Crowley reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of keys. He found the right one and turned sideways, reaching across to hand them over, holding the proper key between two fingers while the others jangled below. Aziraphale took them, gingerly.

Crowley stepped back to clear a path to the door. As Aziraphale unbolted the lock and turned the knob, the thought crossed his mind that the others could already be lying in wait for Crowley inside. How would they react when instead, Aziraphale’s face appeared? 

Soundlessly, Aziraphale eased the door open a crack, then nudged it to let it swing open on its own. The swivel door down the hallway was open. There was nothing on the polished floor, save for the glassy reflection of a light through the far window. 

“Well?” Crowley said from somewhere over his left shoulder.

“All clear.”

“_What_?”

Crowley pushed past him into the flat. Aziraphale watched as Crowley peered around, checked behind the door, around the potted plants, even under the desk, as if he expected to find a demon crouching in the corner. 

“Fuck,” he hissed.

“Adam,” said Aziraphale. “Perhaps we ought to have requested that he not resurrect the demon you murdered in your flat.”

Crowley took off running further inside, only pausing in the central room to rip the telephone cables and television cords free from the walls. Aziraphale was still standing just outside, and as Crowley disappeared from sight, he craned his neck as far as he could to watch without entering the flat.

“Crowley—?”

From the other room: “Lock the door!”

He hesitated in the doorway. There were no sides now—or if there were, they must be just as Crowley had said so at the bus stop. At the band stand. Our side, and their side.

Aziraphale had already done the damage. He had flouted orders, manipulated his superiors, and chose to stand by a demon wielding a tire iron over the holy righteous. He had breached the laws of his design, and he would pay for it. Aziraphale had known it from the moment he read that final prophecy. Now he and Crowley were playing with fire.

Aziraphale lingered just outside the door to Crowley’s flat. He thought that, perhaps, there was a small chance that he could salvage things with Upstairs. With the right framing, and just enough context, he could persuade them that the ineffable plan had called him to make these temporary alliances and disrupt their plans—postpone them, really. “My side” and “your side.” There was just one thing he absolutely could not do if he wanted to preserve that possibility.

And yet.

He could hear Crowley moving about just out of site, the sound of rummaging and muttered cursing. Aziraphale tucked Crowley’s keys into his breast pocket. He smoothed out his jacket, and crossed the threshold into the flat with two decisive steps.

In the bedroom, he found Crowley on the floor, his lower half sticking out from the narrow space under the bed. Aziraphale clicked on the lamp on the adjacent table. The room flooded with dull light.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing up. I’ve just got to find that one thing—ah!” Crowley appeared in sight as Aziraphale bent over and lifted the side of the bed with one hand. Still prone, surrounded by clutter and dust, Crowley reached out and snatched a black leather bag from its place under a far corner. “Always forget about that bloody angel strength of yours.”

Aziraphale set the bed down once Crowley was clear of it. “I’m afraid I’ll need to use it soon,” he said, only half joking. “Agnes was not being ambiguous about that part; they are going to set me on fire.”

“No they’re not. Take this.”

Crowley thrust the bag into Aziraphale’s hands. It felt heavy for its size, and lumpy, as though he had filled it with a number of small rocks.

“What’s this?” said Aziraphale.

“Basic supplies. We’re getting out of here.”

Aziraphale pulled loose the drawstring on the bag. “Out of London?”

“Out of this galaxy. Off the face of the Earth.”

Inside the bag, there was half a dozen pairs of sunglasses. The rest was airplane-sized bottles of liquor. Aziraphale counted a least four kinds on a glance. He looked up from the bag, dumbfounded at Crowley’s statement, and even more surprised to find himself sitting on the edge of the bed. 

“Crowley—”

The bedroom was a small space, more of an alcove than a true room, neat and sparse except for the odds and ends Crowley had pulled out from under the bed in search for his bag. A single window would have looked out over the street below had the curtains not been pulled across it. There was a pocket door that sectioned it off from the rest of the flat, and just enough space to fit a bed and an end table. Crowley was pacing the short length between the window and where Aziraphale sat with the bag held open on his lap. The movement was like something caged. Nearly frantic.

“Crowley, is that really what you think Agnes meant by ‘choose our faces’?”

Crowley made an agitated, dismissive gesture.

“No. I don’t know! I thought maybe—there would be more time to think about it, but then I remembered how much they were looking forward to collecting me before the whole thing with the kid and the stand-off and all of that.”

Aziraphale was alarmed to see him so spooked. The absence of a thousand smoldering cars along the M25 had told them had Adam was at least reversing the catastrophic loss of life that had occurred today. Aziraphale didn’t find it surprising that Ligur had been spared, even if it was disappointing. He wasn’t even entirely convinced that he _had_ been spared. 

“So to be clear,” said Aziraphale, in a tepid effort to ground him, “your proposal is to flee to another planet and live out the rest of our infinite existence with nothing but a bag of nippers?”

“Not the _whole thing_. Just pop over to Messier 61 or Alpha Centauri for a century or two, till things cool down a bit. We could stop down every so often to see how things are going here, and then maybe…”

Aziraphale shook his head, cutting him off. Right now, the other side was still reeling. The longer they waited to confront this, the worse it would be. Gabriel and the angels and the band of demons would have time to stew on it, to let it sink into the fabric of their collective memories like a stain on a fine suit. He could only speculate about how much worse the retribution would be if they had a chance to coordinate it.

Something else was more important, though. He had spent the entire bus ride thinking on it, while avoiding Crowley’s eye and watching him tap his fingertips an anxious beat against his knee. They could have fled eleven years ago. They could have fled just hours ago. Crowley had all but begged him to do it. The thing that made him resist had never changed, and it was not about to change tonight.

“I don’t want to leave this place,” he said, at last.

Crowley rounded on him then, his temper finally peaking. He swiveled around mid-pace and stormed back over to the bed. A few hundred years ago, Aziraphale might have flinched back at his aggressive stance, the way Crowley got right up close and invaded his space. But now, and here, he did not so much as lean away.

“Well then what do you want, Aziraphale? Do you want to let them chew you up in the seventh circle for the rest of time? Is that what you want?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, feeling desperate. He had heard his mocking tone so many times. His anger, too. His disgust. He had been reading the language of his posture for millennia. Together, Crowley’s body and voice were some of the most familiar sounds he knew. He could recall them all in his head, and the faint notes between them, like an instrument that he could tune by ear. He knew that this was none of those.

If they ran off now, they could huddle together in a remote corner of the universe. They could begin again, claiming the new space as their own, building it however they liked. If they were cautious, they might never be discovered. 

It was not enough. He had spent most all of his life among the joys and terrors of humankind, reaping the benefits of their creativity. And everything he loved about the world—the smell of a book when he cracked it open, the heat of a warm mug sitting in his palms—he loved it tenfold with Crowley beside him. They were so, so very close to it now. If even the smallest chance existed that they could survive here, and live on without reservation or restraint, he would give his life to try.

So Aziraphale reached up, and touched the side of Crowley’s face. 

By instinct, Crowley almost recoiled at the gesture. His ragged breath shorted in surprise, and for just a moment, he seemed stuck between the urge to step back and the desire to lean in. But he didn’t do either of those things. Instead, Crowley froze as Aziraphale ran his thumb along the side of his cheek, across the soft place just behind his ear, and let his fingers rest among the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Holding him here—effortlessly, Crowley stunned in place—Aziraphale raised his free hand and gently lifted the glasses away.

“I am afraid,” he said, because Crowley would not. “But I want to be free.”

The few short moments passed like a century. In the dim light, Crowley’s eyes were round, the pupils wide and dark against the gold. There was nothing around them but the silence of the night, the sparing inches between their faces, and Aziraphale’s last effort to convey every thought in his head without speaking aloud. 

Finally, after an era, Crowley shrugged away from his touch and sat next to him on the black coverlet. He leaned against his hands, shoulders round, defeated. 

“Fine,” he said, voice haggard. “You win. But how?”

Aziraphale had memorized it, but he pulled the slip of paper from his coat pocket and read it again.

“You know how.”

“It won’t work.”

“It might!”

“It might,” Crowley conceded, in the tone of someone who would much prefer to be getting drunk in the stratosphere of some other planet. Absently, he stuck his hand in the bag and came up with a peppermint schnapps. 

Aziraphale examined the prophecy more closely, as though expecting the words to read differently. “It’s highly unusual for her to give a warning like this. I can’t imagine why she would do it if we had no chance of success.”

“Agnes, so generous.” Crowley toasted to the air, drank the bottle down in a single gulp, and coughed. “Wow. That is disgusting.”

Aziraphale stole a sidelong glance. “Truly. If your plan was to live out an eternal picnic in space, why not pack a few nice bottles of wine and a brandy or two?” 

They ought not to be drinking at a time like this. The margin between them and certain danger was increasingly narrow, and they needed clear heads if they wanted to make a smart call about their next move. It didn’t help that they started off a little tipsy from the long wait at the bus stop, and the day’s efforts had put a great heaviness in Crowley’s posture. Aziraphale could see that it would not take Crowley much to stumble off the narrow ledge between drunk and not drunk. Coupled with his realization about the impending reckoning, the confrontation between them had just about knocked him flat. 

Despite knowing all of this, Aziraphale caught himself staring as Crowley knocked back a second shot—the way he arched his whole body back to drink it down, and the way his dark red hair fell across his brow when he shook off the awful taste. The temptation was too great, and time was just too short.

Aziraphale picked a bottle at random and inspected the label. It was something called ‘fireball.’

“Eh, I figured these’d get us drunk faster and keep it that way longer,” Crowley said, watching almost smugly as Aziraphale twisted off the lid. “Not super convenient to run down to the shops when it’s ten million light years in the wrong direction, is it? Cheers.”

He tipped the lid of his empty drink against Aziraphale’s. 

Aziraphale took a cautious sip of the ‘fireball’ and almost choked on it. He considered venturing another sip, but reconsidered and downed it all at once. It was the only tolerable way, and even then, he grimaced. 

“I can't think of any other plan,” he said, after the burn had left his throat. “Can you?"

Crowley flopped backwards on the bed, somehow with another tiny bottle already open in one hand. “We could pick them off, one by one.”

“That’s not funny,” said Aziraphale, but he was smirking. “I’ve seen Gabriel run. He’s quite fast.”

It was not how Aziraphale had imagined that he and Crowley would end up here, lying close across the bed. He had always assumed that alcohol might play a role in it, since it had a way of making him forget his angelic obligations—or at least interpret them in a light more friendly to humankind’s conception of free will. The main difference was the jokes about their impending demise. As for the rest, it was not so bad. The coverlet was cool and soft, and when Crowley spoke, he could feel the reverberations of his voice echoing his chest. Fifteen minutes had gone by, then half an hour, and time stopped tracking straight by the time they had each finished a handful little plastic bottles. The bed was strewn with them.

“What if—” Crowley slurred. “Okay, I got it.”

“Oh please, not another—”

“No, no, I do! Okay, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “We lure in some demons, kill them, take their bodies, bury the bodies, transform our appearance to look like them, convince Beelzebub and the rest that we—the real us version of we—are dead, and the new version of us needs to go back up to Earth to keep an eye on things, and then just—just—keep on going like before!”

“I don’t want to pretend to be a demon for the rest of time!” Aziraphale protested. “And I rather like the body I have. I was so glad to have it back—”

“Sure, likewise, but if it’s between oblivion and being some big ugly bastard… false equav—equivalence if you ask me.” Crowley looked at his watch. Or rather, he squinted at it and tried admirably to focus his eyes on it through the haze. 

“They’re late,” he said. “Thought they’d come and fetch us by now.”

“They won’t,” said Aziraphale. “Not tonight.”

He had been tuning in every so often, curious as to whether they were being watched. So far, from his limited ability to know, there was nothing. On one hand, it surprised him that they wouldn’t be eager to drop in and take them both away. On the other, a few hours to calm down a literal army of over-eager angels that hadn’t seen a battlefield in several thousand years was not much time at all. Especially not on the biblical scale of things. A passing night was merely a passing moment.

“Why not?”

“They’ll want to take us in at the same time if they can, and it’s easier to grab us both if we’re together.”

“Umm,” said Crowley, gesturing vaguely between them.

“On neutral territory, I mean. They won’t want us to have the upper hand or time to set a trap or… whatnot. Which means they will most likely to come fetch us in public, where they think we won’t make a fuss.” 

A long pause drew over them. He heard and felt Crowley’s long sigh as he breathed it out. The sound was weighted with alcohol and resignation. 

“You know something,” said Crowley, in a low voice. “It could work.”

The little scrap of prophecy was in Aziraphale’s hand. He clenched it tightly. “It has to work.”

“And if they can’t kill us, nothing left but to cast us out, right? For a few centuries, at least.”

“At _least_.”

Beside him, the mattress shifted slightly as Crowley rolled onto his side. He propped his chin on the heel of his palm, and peered down at Aziraphale. 

“You know what I think?” 

There was a funny look on Crowley’s face. A sort of bemused affection that made Aziraphale’s pulse ring and his body tense. He had an awareness, like background noise, of where Crowley’s hand lay by his own. Against his will, he felt his eyes drift away from Crowley’s intense stare, down to his lips, almost imperceptibly. Almost. He watched the smirk flit across his mouth and disappear.

“What do you think?” Aziraphale had not meant for the words to come out as a near-whisper, but they did. 

“I think,” said Crowley, “that you look awfully excited about a plan with a high likelihood of getting us both destroyed tomorrow.”

Aziraphale clutched Agnes’s last written words in his hand, and held them up between them. “She hasn’t let us down so far. I trust her.”

“And I trust you, angel,” said Crowley, so softly, and that was just too much.

Aziraphale had to move, now. He sat up. The act cost him most all of his energy. As he stood, he stumbled a little at the floor shifting beneath his drunken feet. He stuffed the prophecy back into his breast pocket, and when he did, his fingers brushed the set of keys. 

“I’m going to sober up and think this all the way through.”

He glanced back over his shoulder at the bed, half hoping that Crowley was not paying him any mind. No such luck. Crowley had propped himself up, laboriously, on his elbows to watch as Aziraphale adjusted his lapel and tugged his sleeves straight. He shoved his sunglasses back on, but they hung crooked to one side. 

“What?” said Aziraphale, before he could stop himself.

Crowley looked very much as though he would like to say something. Apparently taken aback, he opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to think better of it. He straightened his glasses and frowned.

“Nothing,” said Crowley. He kicked off his shoes. There were two loud, sequential thuds as they hit the floor. “I’m going to get one last night of good sleep in my own body. If anyone shows up looking for trouble…” He pointed to the backpack that had slid onto the ground, to himself, to Aziraphale, and then off in what appeared to be a random direction, but was most likely the actual direction of Messier 64. 

“I’ll keep an eye out. Sleep well.” And Aziraphale left the room. 

He was shaking. He retreated to the kitchen, pressing his temples between his hands, pulling the booze out and the sobriety back in. The return of his sensibilities did not little to lessen the knot in his chest, but it stopped him from turning right back around again.

He found some tea in the pantry. It was easy enough to spot, being that it was the only thing in there aside from a large tin of instant coffee and some long-expired biscuits. Under the sink was a dusty kettle. He vaguely recalled using it once in the 1920’s, during a snow storm that had offed the power at his book shop. Aziraphale gave it a good rinse and set some water to boil. 

He caught himself listening closely as he stood by the stove. A stillness had settled back over the flat, quiet except for the tick-tick-tick of the water heating up. Internally, he steeled himself. He had not been wringing his hands since 1941 to die tomorrow. He would not let fear frame the most important conversation of his life, no matter how badly he wanted for it to happen. It simply would not do.

By the time his tea had steeped and he had dragged a chair across the flat to the bedroom, Crowley was asleep. 

The bedspread had been pulled back to show the burgundy sheets beneath, but Cowley had collapsed diagonally across the mattress, face-first, not bothering to slip out of his trousers or get beneath the blanket. His jacket lay discarded across the room. One of his long legs dangled halfway off the bed. His arm hung limply, the backs of his fingers grazing the floor. Crowley had at least made it to the pillow, but his glasses were askew on his forehead.

Aziraphale watched him out of the corner of his eye while he set the chair up just outside the open doorway to the bedroom, where he could have line of sight to two different windows. He pulled an end table over next to the chair, and set his tea on it along with candle he’d found on the mantle. For all the scraping of furniture and clinking of glass, Crowley didn’t move—just the slow rise and fall of his back. 

He had left the lamp on by his head, too drunk and drained to bother reaching up to turn it off. Aziraphale went over to the bedside.

“Crowley...” he whispered.

He was out cold. For the second time that night, Aziraphale carefully eased the sunglasses off of his head. He folded them and set them down on the bedside table. But when he reached up to click off the lamp, he hesitated. 

The lamp cast a warm, yellow light over Crowley where he slept. It caught the harsh angles of his profile, the soft curl of his lashes, the relaxed line of his eyebrows. Against all his resolve, Aziraphale stared. That sentiment was roiling up inside him again. He had shirked it for years, but it would not be ignored. 

All of a sudden, he could have been standing in the ruins of a church, reaching out to accept a bag full of perfectly-preserved books, utterly stunned. Floored. That feeling never fully abated, but now, as he stood over Crowley with his arms and knees trembling, it filled him up and ran over. 

Kneeling down at the head of the bed, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and pressed it between his own. He was cool to the touch, but then, Aziraphale was running warm.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” he said, in a hush. “If—when we survive this, I promise I’ll tell you everything you deserve to hear.”

Aziraphale waited to see whether Crowley roused at his voice. When he was confident that Crowley would not wake, he lingered anyway.

He could have stayed right there until morning. The hours were long at this time of night, and he had often spent them on less worthy endeavors than watching the peaceful, sleeping face of his... friend? His favorite nemesis. His unintentional life partner. Whatever Crowley was tonight, and everything that he would be tomorrow.

But he had promised to keep an eye out for anything ominous. So Aziraphale bent low and brushed his lips over Crowley’s knuckles before letting go—hardly a kiss, he told himself. More a promise. Then he clicked off the light, rose from his knees, and retreated back to his vigil at the chair. He was almost tearful. 

Crowley had guessed that if their plan worked, it might buy them a few centuries.

_A few centuries!_ thought Aziraphale, half despairing. It could never be enough.

xxx

By design, a demon was not capable of having a hangover. Or rather, having never experienced one in his lifetime, Crowley had simply assumed this was a fact.

It was as if his body had been hijacked. His head felt dense but empty, his arms leaden, his gut knotted. Crowley knew at once that alcohol would never betray him like this. Waking up in such rare form could only be the consequence of yesterday’s force of will—an exercise of the mind so strenuous that it left him boneless and sore. His last moment of consciousness had been moments after Aziraphale left him alone in the room, when he’d decided that it was not worth the effort to strip off his trousers. He was paying for it now. His stiff legs resisted and caught in the blanket when he tried to roll over onto his back.

It was not a hangover, but it was rugged.

He had also concluded long ago that demons were incapable of getting black-out drunk (not for lack of trying). Crowley awoke all at once, and with perfect recollection of the night before, which did not stop him from being bewildered at the sight of a specific someone in his bedroom. Aziraphale was standing by the window, having just drawn the curtains aside with a flourish. He was more of a silhouette against the sunshine. For a wild moment, Crowley thought that he was somewhere else.

“Good morning, Crowley!” he announced, beaming. Clearly, he had little to no experience in rousing someone from sleep—or otherwise, his intentions were cruel. One had to assume the former. Him being an angel and all, albeit a dastardly one. 

Crowley raised a hand over his eyes to filter out some of the light, too drained to be annoyed. “Why, angel?”

“There’s so much to do.”

“What time is it?”

“Just past five,” said Aziraphale, already out of the room again. Crowley could hear him moving about, at a pace too fast for this early. 

“Fuck.”

Aziraphale appeared at the bedside, a steaming cup in each hand. Crowley stared, incredulous, for several moments before it finally occurred to him to move. Flopping back over on his stomach, he grabbed for the wooden headboard and used it to pry himself up. He knew it must be a pathetic sight. Aziraphale waited patiently for him to disentangle himself from the blankets and get seated.

“I’ve never asked—do you drink tea when you wake up in the morning? I made some for you. It’s a bit on the stale side, but that’s what happens when you only refresh your stock every sixty years…”

Truthfully, he didn’t, but Crowley would have accepted just about anything that Aziraphale offered him at that moment. He received the cup with one hand, the other pressing two fingers against the bridge of his nose, still trying to shake off the heavy fatigue. 

“What’s the plan?” he managed to say. 

“The same as last night. Before leaving, we switch bodies.”

“That’s just as well,” Crowley grumbled. “Mine hates me right now.”

Aziraphale didn’t seem to hear him. “There’s just a few details we should discuss first, to make sure we’re each prepared for what happens next.”

He had walked around to the other side of the bed. As he grabbed a corner of the coverlet, still balancing a brimming teacup, Crowley thought for a bizarre moment that Aziraphale was about to make the bed for him, with him still sitting in it. The actual event was even more surprising. Aziraphale tugged the blanket neatly into place, smoothing out the wrinkles, and propped the second pillow up against the headboard. He cleared away the little empty bottles that lay scattered about. Then he sat down in the space beside Crowley, swinging his legs up onto the bed. His socks poked out from the hems of his neatly-pressed trousers.

“There we go,” said Aziraphale, leaning comfortably back against the pillow, cradling his tea into his chest. He looked as if he had just settled into a lawn chair for a bit of sunbathing. “Let’s iron this out, shall we? I’ve been working through the potential issues all night. Look, I’ve even got notes!”

He flashed a stack of papers that seemed to appear from nowhere, looking proud. Crowley said nothing. Aziraphale took his blank look as an invitation to dive in. He began going on about what to expect when Crowley was taken Up for judgment, consulting his notes between sips of tea.

Crowley wasn’t listening. He was too busy staring at Aziraphale, watching him talk without processing the words. He looked at his profile, the calm ease in his shoulders. The way the morning light caught the steam rising off the teacup as it drifted past his nose. The little smirk that had settled in the corner of his mouth. The cadence of his voice. 

Aziraphale had thought it through, and he was all resolute confidence. Crowley drank it in, hungry and desperate. 

Aziraphale turned to him and asked a question. Not hearing, Crowley just nodded. 

He would figure it all out later. All he needed at this moment was to watch, and to _see_. This could not be the last time, could it—? 

No. Not if the plan worked. If the plan worked, they might have another couple years—a few centuries, even.

Aziraphale glanced up at him from his papers, and smiled.

_A few centuries like this?_ Crowley thought.

Very well. He could live on that.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote this fic first (before The Crawl). This fic also happened to be the first thing I wrote in over half a decade (~2014). It was kind of a traumatic experience to put things into words again. 
> 
> Not really contributing anything new here. But... there are a million variations of This Scene, and I love every single one of them. And if I can look at 8,000 pieces of fan art of this couple basically just holding hands (or trying not to hold hands) and ENJOY IT EVERY TIME, then this is fine too. You don't need every work to be a groundbreaking revelation. 
> 
> Endless gratitude to the ineffable Izilen, for her invaluable feedback, and for helping me find my muscle memory.
> 
> Thanks for reading, y'all!


End file.
